we are never done with thinking about our parents, I suppose, and come to know them better long after they are dead than we ever did when they were alive.

In the novel or the journal you get the journey. In a poem you get the arrival.

The minute one utters a certainty, the opposite comes to mind.

There was such a thing as women's work and it consisted chiefly, Hilary sometimes thought, in being able to stand constant interruption and keep your temper. . . .

When addressed, a Gentleman Cat does not move a muscle. He looks as if he hasn't heard.

Poetry has a way of teaching one what one needs to know ... if one is honest.

For after all we make our faces as we go along.